


En Famille

by LoveChilde



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consequences, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poor John, Scolding- not recreational, post- Baskerville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/pseuds/LoveChilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days after the end of the Baskerville case, Mycroft finally untangles himself from the bureaucratic mess caused by Sherlock's use of his ID, and visits 221B Baker St. to do something he hasn't had to do in quite a while. Will John stand by and let him? Would he resist? Would he, of all things, help? Non-sexual spanking of an adult, not really slash, just friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Famille

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to and including Hounds of Baskerville. Rights are not mine, I'm just borrowing them, really. Not slash, or pre-slash, whatever. And yes, here there be CP, and sort of dub-con, which isn't my usual thing but worked in this case. Also, slight mentions of past abuse. And possibly improper use of Her Majesty. My eternal thanks to Joannie_M for her beta.

When Mycroft Holmes showed up in their living room, John knew it was something serious. Mycroft rarely bothered to visit directly, when having them brought to him was an option. They'd become allies of a sort, over the past year- Mycroft had insights into the workings of Sherlock's mind, when John was at the end of his tether with his difficult flat-mate, and John had saved Sherlock's life often enough that Mycroft seemed to trust him to keep doing it. But he rarely just showed up unannounced. 

"Sherlock's out." He said as he came in from the kitchen, "But as you can see, I'm not- I would've let you in, if you'd bothered to knock."

"Thought I'd save you the trouble." Mycroft replied smoothly, smiling his infuriating shadow of a smirk. "And I know my brother's not in, I wanted to talk to you before he returned. If I may say so, John, you're not looking your best."

"Thanks ever so." John's voice held a sour note. "I haven't been sleeping well, the past few days." Sherlock's fault, mainly. The scare they'd both had on the moor stayed with them both, manifesting in vivid, heart-stopping nightmares for John, which had kept him up the three nights since their return. Mycroft nodded.

"Clearly. Nightmares?" John shrugged, as there was no point in denying it, but it was hardly any of Mycroft's business. "And how is my dear brother?" John shrugged again. 

"As far as I can tell, what passes for normal, for him. Quiet. Slept for 36 hours straight when we got home, this is the first he's been out of the flat since then." A little more subdued, certainly, not quite as desperately manic as before they'd left. John huffed a bitter chuckle. "Hasn't noticed I'm not talking to him yet, and it's been a couple of days." 

"Oh?" Something in Mycroft's tone and expression implied that the next question was only a courtesy, "Has a black cat come between you two? Or a black dog, perhaps?"

John was silent for a moment, thoughtful, but he'd been sitting on simmering resentment for three days, he hadn't had any sleep, and if anybody could understand the impossibility of living with Sherlock Holmes, his brother surely could. "He experimented on me. Fear and stimulus, he said. Locked me in a lab and scared the shit out of me." Sherlock's one small redemption in this was that there hadn't been a trace of mockery to him, no shade of a prank coloring the act- there'd been nothing personal there, only a clinical lab trial- which in a way made it that much worse, actually. "I don't care how scared he was, himself. He had no right to do that. No right." His voice shook and he took a deep breath, steadying. At first he'd let it slide, but the rage that bubbled up after the first nightmare, the first in many months, hadn't subsided yet. He thought he was over the PTSD, and having a reaction triggered so casually, without apology, was infuriating. 

Mycroft looked at him steadily, neither derision nor sympathy in his expression, until John recovered from his small outburst. Then he cleared his throat. "It seems my brother is in greater need of a lesson in manners than he usually is. His little stunt at Baskerville caused me quite a lot of trouble, that's taken until yesterday to clear up." He did seem more than usually put out, now that John paid attention to his demeanor. Mycroft looked around the living room. "He'll be at least another twenty minutes. You might offer me some tea."

***

Five minutes later they were both seated at the kitchen table, both with steaming mugs in front of them, and Mycroft finally seemed ready to get to the point of his visit. "Normally I wouldn't do this here, and I may yet decide to take it elsewhere, but I wanted to inform you before I came to any decision. I will explain, and then you may decide whether you want to stay here and help me, stay here and take no part in it, or go out, and maintain the illusion of ignorance." Not knowing exactly what he was talking about, John elected to stay silent and wait. "You see John, my brother occasionally requires a sharp reminder that he is not, in fact, above human laws. He hasn't needed one in a while- not since you've come to live here, actually. I would've done something after the Adler fiasco, but as that was at least partially my own fault, and resolved with relatively little harm, I decided against it. I thought the shock of being manipulated and misled would save me the trouble of correcting Sherlock's behavior. Clearly, I was mistaken."

"He was wrong again." John informed him helpfully. "Up in Dartmoor, he was sure the drug was in the sugar, that's why he tried to experiment on me. And he was well and truly shaken by the whole thing- I've never seen him freaking out like that." Mycroft winced slightly at his use of language, and John repressed a smile. "He was genuinely afraid. Maybe the business with Adler had more of an effect than we knew." He wasn't sure what Mycroft meant by 'a sharp reminder', and didn't want to guess. 

"The fact remains that he broke several laws, in a way I couldn't turn a blind eye to or sweep away, unfortunately, since his actions led directly to me. I was up to my ears in paperwork and explanations all week, it was quite distasteful." His lips twisted in mild disgust, and he sipped his tea. 

"So you're here to arrest him? Think a night in jail will settle him?" John asked, running out of patience while Mycroft continued to circle his point. The elder Holmes' lips pressed into a condescending smile.

"No, that's proved quite ineffective in the past, I'm afraid. All it does is frustrate the police and make Sherlock even more intractable. No, I promised my employer that I would solve this in house, as it were- en famille. Remind him that certain norms of society must be observed, that certain…behaviors, let's say, are inappropriate in people over the age of eight." 

"Is there anything that works, when it comes to that?" John had mostly given up on correcting some of Sherlock's worst habits, although he'd noticed the detective was slowly growing out of some of them on his own, becoming a slightly better housemate and colleague- and friend. He was certainly apologizing more often. 

"Several things. Your companionship has done wonders, John. His behavior has improved considerably, I'm quite grateful, really."

"I'm not doing any of it on purpose- and certainly not for you." John interrupted. 

"Nevertheless, I am grateful." Mycroft's smile widened momentarily. 

"I'm glad to know things can still be changed, at his age. My aunt would've said he hadn't been spanked enough as a child." He didn't add that his mother, a progressive thinker who'd never raised a hand to her children, would've disagreed. Mycroft blinked. 

"I think you might find that you aunt is quite wrong in that observation." Before John had a chance to ask what exactly that meant, Mycroft continued. "Certain   
experiences in childhood have played a part in my brother's reaction- or lack thereof- to certain methods of correction. As I said, he's past due a refresher course in proper behavior, which I intend to provide when he returns-" he checked his watch, "any minute now. As I said, since you live with him you'll at least need to be aware of my intentions, and the possible after-effects. As a doctor, I'm sure you'll need reassurances that I have no intention of causing any long-term damage-"

"Mycroft." John's voice took on a dangerous quality, and his hand stretched out to stop the flow of words, "What, exactly, in small words, are you planning to do?"

"I thought it would be obvious by now, John." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his smile still fixed in place. "I intend to scold my brother, in a very non-recreational manner. You'd be amazed at how effective physical pain is, with him. Much more so than lecturing."

John was gaping, and knew his was gaping, but even with the lead-in and buildup, the idea was absurd. Sherlock was a grown man, and Mycroft the least physical person John had ever met. It made no sense whatsoever. "You don't actually mean- you do, don't you? But you can't- you wouldn't."

"Of course I can, and I certainly would." Mycroft replied pleasantly. "Can't I, Sherlock?" John spun around and found Sherlock in the doorway, leaning casually against the wall, his face neutral but his shoulders tense. He wondered how long he'd been standing there, and felt sure that Mycroft had been aware of him since he'd entered the flat. 

"He'd certainly like to think he can, I'm sure." Sherlock detached himself from the doorway and moved into the kitchen. "I think he'll find, in this case, that he'd wrong."   
He quirked his lips at Mycroft. "I'm sure it'll come as quite a shock to you."

"We'll see." Mycroft refocused on John as Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea and very obviously didn't join them at the table, choosing to lean against the counter instead. "So, I've explained what I'm here to do. As I said, you're welcome to stay here and help me, stay here and watch, or ignore us, or go out to see a film for a couple of hours and enjoy the fruits on my labor on your return."

"What if I try to stop you?" An option Mycroft hadn't mentioned. John decided, for the moment, to treat the threat as serious- he wouldn't put anything past either Holmes brother, although it didn't seem to faze Sherlock.

Mycroft gave him a patient-yet-puzzled look he was more used to seeing on Sherlock's face. "Why would you want to? I assure you, it works very well. Calms him down for at least two weeks. You have to admit he's been manic to the point of being a danger to himself and others recently, hasn't he?"

John had to nod in reply. "Quit smoking again. He's been even more insufferable than usual."

"Then believe me, it'll help. Not being able to sit or move comfortably focuses him."

"But it's barbaric- absurd- practically illegal!" It'd be like assault, wouldn't it? He glanced in Sherlock's direction, noting that he looked bored, but his foot was tapping rapidly. Not as nonchalant as he wanted to appear, then. "He's an adult, you don't do that sort of thing to adults."

"He's been behaving like a child, I think it's an appropriate corrective response." 

"I'm standing right here, you know." Sherlock joined the conversation for the first time. "And you're right for a change, John, what Mycroft's suggesting is quite absurd.   
It's been a nice visit, but he'll be leaving now." He put his mug down. "Correct, Mycroft?"

"Not at all, little brother. You knew this was coming, and yet you're here, think of what this means, when it comes to your consent. Why don't you go to your room and wait for me there, while John makes up his mind? If you'd like to help me, it would only be with holding him down for the punishment itself. I wouldn't want you to violate your oath." He added in John's direction, as Sherlock's scowl became more pronounced. 

John wasn't at all sure that hitting people in general didn't violate his oath. He'd killed people, in defense of himself or others- he'd even punched Sherlock himself, which had been immensely satisfying at the time- and he wasn't Sherlock's physician, not officially. Still, he had absolutely no interest in getting involved in this. "I think I'll leave you two to it, thanks. I'm staying in, though." It was cold and looked like rain, "I'm not leaving just because you two are having a domestic. I'll be in my room, or the living room, wherever's quieter. You enjoy yourselves and leave me out of it, thanks." He didn't really believe Mycroft would do any of what he threatened- or that he'd succeed if he tried. 

"If you're staying, I'd rather you at least watched." Mycroft requested, but added "It's entirely your choice, though. Sherlock, kindly go to your room and wait for me there." 

"Mycroft, kindly stop gloating and stop being an idiot. I'd say it doesn't suit you, but you do it so often that you must think it does. Leave us alone." He pushed away from the counter, landing lightly, and nodded at John. "Tell him to leave us alone. I'm going to check my mail." Moments later, a door slammed somewhere in the house.

"He still hasn't noticed I'm not talking to him. Three days." John grumbled, glancing at Mycroft but mainly following Sherlock with his eyes as he headed out, unhindered. "But of course, he rarely waits for a reply when he talks to me. At me, rather. You really intend to go through with it?"

"Absolutely." Mycroft rose smoothly from his chair and reached for his walking stick, which John had thought nothing more than a silly affectation. He twisted the ornate head and drew out a slender cane. "Whale bone. An antique, but still serviceable." 

John shuddered, looking at the instrument. It seemed quite innocent, really. "Sorry. This is still confusing to me. He's a grown man, you can't do this. And besides, he's stormed off now." If it came to a physical fight between the brothers, having seen Sherlock defend himself, he wouldn't bet on Mycroft. The other man seemed amused.

"If you check, you'll see he's done exactly as I instructed, whether he intended to or not- he's in his room, waiting. Whether he checks his mail while he waits doesn't matter much, does it?" Indeed, when John moved to the living room again Sherlock's laptop was gone from his customary place at his desk. "Trust me, John. This is hardly the first time this has happened, and I did give him advance notice; he knows what's expected of him. This particular dance only has one outcome." 

"Advance notice? When?" John raised an eyebrow.

"When he contacted me and requested legal clearance into the Baskerville facility, after upsetting my schedule for a week by using my stolen ID. The most I could directly do at that distance was send Lestrade over to keep an eye on things, but I let Sherlock know in very clear words that he'd crossed the line and I'd be visiting at my earliest convenience. He knew I was coming, and he's here anyway. He could've disappeared for a week, it's happened before. But as I said, this has been going on since he was quite young, it's what he's familiar with and works best."

"And it never occurred to you it might be traumatizing? Or that he's been too old for it for at least fifteen years now?" The thought of using that cane on a child made his blood run cold, as much as he really couldn't imagine Sherlock as a boy. Must've been a right terror, though. 

"Better me than Father. Mummy certainly couldn't handle him." Mycroft's eyes grew distant, but he drew himself back to the present with a slight shake of the head. "I haven't done this in almost two years, so I suspect he'll put up more resistance than usual- maybe for your sake as well. Your opinion matters a great deal to him, even if he doesn't show it." 

John was silent for almost half a minute. "You know, I don't even know what to say." He said at last. He knew Sherlock cared about what he thought- sometimes, at least. Not always. The thought that Mycroft actually intended to overpower his brother and hit him still seemed like something one would find at the bottom of a bottle, detached from reality. "I can't take part in it. I don't want to watch- why would you think I'd want to watch?"

"You're angry with him." Mycroft shrugged. "It might make you feel better." 

"Why would seeing my friend get hurt make me feel better?" This was no school slipper, and John had no doubt it could do considerable damage. Punching Sherlock may have been satisfying, but something this cold and systematic? No.

"Human nature, John. Justified retribution makes people feel better, as if the world is restored to rights. He deserves it, you know that as well as I do." Shrill, discordant violin music started just as Mycroft said that, coming from Sherlock's room, and the elder Holmes winced. "Oh, he wants to get it over with. Usually he sulks for at least half an hour before starting in on the violin."

"'Usually'? How often do you do this, anyway?" John raised an eyebrow, and Mycroft shrugged elegantly.

"Not often. Once a year maybe, on good years. At his absolute worst, rather more often." Mycroft paused, apparently lost in some memory for a moment "As I said earlier, I haven't had to do it in over eighteen months, and I'd rather hoped we could dispense with it in the future. Unfortunately it seems that we can't. He needs to have his boundaries redrawn, occasionally." 

The music, if it could be called that, continued undisturbed. "And this- the noise, it always happens?"

"Almost always. He's trying to guilt me out of punishing him- it won't work and he knows it, but he likes to try." 

"Guilt you? If anything, this might actually make it easier, and you more determined to shut him up." John frowned. The cacophony was Sherlock at his least pleasant, and John was willing to bet that the bedroom door was locked behind him, too. 

"Yes, and that's precisely it- if he makes me lose control of my temper he knows I won't touch him, it'll buy him a reprieve until I've calmed down again. It's only ever happened once." At John's questioning look, he frowned slightly. "I had to bail him out of jail, high as a kite, and drag home after the last time he'd overdosed. Barely got him out of that one." He sighed. "I might as well give you some background. You know that I'm seven years older than my brother." John hadn't known that, but nodded anyway. "Our father was a traditional thinker, a military man, and he neither understood us nor wanted to. Mummy was- is- a brilliant woman, but fragile. She went into post-partum depression after Sherlock was born, and never really recovered. Father found his own…traditional ways of controlling Sherlock, but I was the one who taught him, who showed him how to get along among people who weren't our intellectual equals. I was always a much better liar." He said it with neither pride nor apology. "Still, he spent a lot of time alone as a child, after I was sent away to school. Things with Father got worse after Sherlock casually asked him why he kissed Nanny more than he kissed Mummy, at the breakfast table. He was eight." John grimaced, imagining that scene, and Mycroft nodded. "The nanny was dismissed and things were strained for a long time. Father never quite trusted Sherlock after that- and he never had another nanny, so he ran wild. Father found that his own methods worked, more or less, so he continued. Mother wasn't able to protect Sherlock, not from Father, not even from himself. Music and books and being brilliant were his escape, but they trapped him all the same."

John sighed and nodded. He couldn't really picture Sherlock as a child, and thought it must've been a very unhappy time. "He didn't leave you? Your father, I mean."

"No. He broke off the affair, or so he said. I managed to shut Sherlock up about it when he resumed it a few weeks later, but the mistrust was quite mutual from that   
point on. When people fear, they lash out. Sherlock was sent to boarding school when he was twelve, which unfortunately meant that he was alone there, too."

"Bit not good?" John ventured, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock-shorthand. He misreads situations sometimes, needs a reminder."

"Often, I've found. You indicate when he's crossed the line or is close to it?"

"When I'm there. Sometimes I'm not, and then police feathers get ruffled and witnesses collapse in hysterics. Will he never stop that noise?" If anything, the violin was   
louder and angrier. 

"Not until we force him to. I'm reaching the point when the significance of the violin is explained, but I wanted you to have the background. School was always a problem- children are monsters, frankly, and Sherlock was in trouble almost every week. He gave almost as good as he got- became quite a good brawler, by necessity, but his revenge was usually subtler…In a way, anyway. When he was fourteen he was expelled for poisoning half his classmates. It was something of an accident, but it took some doing to stop them from pressing criminal charges."

"Poisoning?" John noticed he was still holding his teacup and put it down abruptly. 

"He meant to disable a bully who'd been tormenting him for two years, and miscalculated the dosage. If the boy hadn't shared his candy with his lackeys, he'd have been quite dead. As it was, ten boys were laid up for a week with unpleasant but not life threatening symptoms, and Sherlock didn't even bother to deny it. He makes a point of only lying when it serves a purpose, and he wanted people to know what he was capable of- his sense of self-preservation was never stellar."

"I'd say." John agreed. "So they kicked him out. Can't say I blame them." He knew Sherlock could be vicious, but to do something like that, so young…Made his blood run cold.

"Nor can I, although I had a sharp word with the headmaster about keeping an eye out for bullying. Those creatures managed to break two of Sherlock's fingers with some ugly prank, and nobody even investigated the issue. He may have overreacted, but the school was partially to blame."  
John sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Let me guess- your dad wasn't pleased?"

"Not in the least. I wasn't living at home anymore, I'd just graduated college and had a flat in Oxford, but I knew enough to make sure I was home the day Sherlock returned. He locked himself in his room and played, just as he is now. He kept it up for five hours straight, until Father came home from the office and broke down his door. He beat Sherlock with the violin bow until it broke, then went on with his belt. I stopped him before he went too far." Mycroft's voice was emotionless, his face neutral, but John could see the slight tremor of muscles in his hands, and felt bile rise in his throat. 

"That's abuse, Mycroft. No more and no less. Violence and abuse." The thought made him shudder. 

"In that instance it was. Uncontrolled, violent, furious- he'd hurt Father's good name, you see, in his own alma mater. That was the last time they spoke, that day. I took Sherlock with me, intending to give him somewhere to hide out until things calmed down, and he never set foot at our parents' home again until Father's funeral, six years later. Broke Mummy's heart, but it was safer for everyone involved. To this day I'm reasonably sure the damage to his violin hurt Sherlock more than the damage to his person."

"That I can believe." John found that his breathing was shallow and slightly too fast, and calmed himself with an effort. "So you really practically raised him. No wonder there's so much resentment between the two of you. " Sherlock didn't do well with authority, parental or otherwise. "But- Mycroft, he's too old for anything like that, isn't he? And doing something like that, continuing something that was definitely abuse then-" even if John was willing to believe that it wasn't abuse now, and he wasn't sure what he thought about that, yet- "After what you've told me, it can't be healthy. I don't think I can let you do it." Nothing good could come of it, clearly it hadn't had the desired effect when their father has done it…Mycroft gave him yet another patient look. 

"John, I wish you'd trust me to know what's best for my brother. He needs a shock to drag him out of this current manic phase, and to reinforce the point that his actions affect others. I taught him not to get caught doing things that could get him in jail before he was ten, and yet he keeps doing them. There's a limit to even my influence, sometimes. He knew going in that it would get him in trouble- and though he may not believe it, I have his best interests at heart."  
John took a deep breath and pursed his lips. "After what happened with Miss Adler, I'm not so sure about that anymore. You sent him into a situation where you knew he'd be in over his head, he could've died, or gone to jail, ruined both of you, if he hadn't been so damn inhumanly clever." He was gathering steam as he went, his voice rising about the screech of the violin, and Mycroft held up a hand to stop him. 

"That was a miscalculation on my part, I admit. We are both lucky that he was more attentive to Miss Adler's physiological cues than I'd given him credit for. Even then, I never intended for him to be hurt." He looked genuinely regretful.

"But you intend it now." It wasn't that John didn't believe him, but the end result had been the same- Sherlock had gotten hurt, and it was sheer luck that the hurt hadn't been worse.

"I intend to ground and focus him. I'm not saying it won't hurt, but it's a means to an end rather than an end in itself. I mean him no harm, John, I never have. You understand the difference, don't you? You're an army man, you know training is hard and painful, but ultimately to a soldier's advantage."

"It's different and you know it." But John did understand what Mycroft meant, in a way. He just couldn't see how what Mycroft proposed would be any more effective than shouting at Sherlock or ignoring him were. "I don't see how it'll help. It's worse than any other reaction except leaving him." And he didn't want to leave, damnit, they were friends despite it all.

"It'll remind him that he has responsibilities. He'll be calm and reasonably pleasant for at least two weeks, according to past experience. While I'm here I'll make sure he doesn't have any other ID cards he shouldn't have." Mycroft rose and started to walk towards Sherlock's room, unhurried. "You have the key, do you not? No doubt he's locked the door."

"I have the key." John ran a catalogue of the illicit credentials Sherlock kept on hand through his mind, wondering which will be confiscated. He'd gotten the key from Mrs. Hudson the second time Sherlock had locked himself in for three days, and had used it four times since then. All four times had ended in rows. "I'm still not sure I want to help you in this, though."

"John, John…" Mycroft shook his head, patience clearly about to run out. "I told you already, I'll do it with or without your approval. You're entirely free to go away, or turn on the TV and ignore us. You're welcome to it, even. But if you go away, you'll forever wonder exactly what I'd done, you'll imagine how it looked, how exactly it affected my brother- and you'll never know for sure. Stay and weather the storm, and you'll be able to reassure yourself, in person, that all is well and my intentions are benign, and that no lasting damage was done."

John stared at him, stunned by this so-neat entrapment. Now that the thought had been planted, there was no way he could just leave. He had to stay. Damn him. "Sherlock once told me you were the most dangerous man I'll ever meet; I thought he was just being dramatic."

"Oh, he was." But Mycroft seemed inordinately pleased by that assessment. "Shall we get on with it? I've a busy schedule and things that urgently require my attention."

"You do realize that you can just skip it and go away, right? I won't mind, and I'm sure Sherlock won't either, if you've more important things to do." John dug the key out of his wallet even as he tried one last time.

"Nonsense. Sherlock's expecting it now. If I leave without making good on my threats, he'll either gloat unbearably, or sulk." Mycroft plucked the key delicately from John's hand. "Remember you've seen him fake emotions, John- don't let his distress fool you. I'll know when the reaction is real, but he might make a fuss well before it is, to manipulate your sympathy. He hates showing that I'm getting to him, but your involvement is an unknown variable, so it could really go either way. Watch, don't talk, and please don't interfere." They'd reached Sherlock's door, and Mycroft inserted the key and twisted sharply. It was the sort of door that button-locked on the inside, and could be opened from the outside. There was little Sherlock could do to stop them, short of pushing the dresser up against the door. Mycroft glanced at him, as if reading his mind. "I suspect he'll resort to less childishness than usual, he really does care about your opinion of him. Now sit back and let me work." 

"Fine, fine, just…for God's sake don't take your time about it, ok?" This was hard enough to handle with the surrounding dramatics.

The door was locked, but it was a mere formality- Sherlock knew that John had a key, so their coming it didn't surprise him. He was facing the window, and didn't turn to them when they entered, but continued to abuse the violin and their ears until Mycroft spoke. 

"You've made your point, Sherlock. You may stop now, it won't help and you'll snap a string or damage the instrument, which would help nobody, don't you think?"   
He approached his brother while John hung back, closing the door behind them. He locked it for good measure, figuring it was a wise strategic move. Sherlock finally put the violin down (John breathed a silent sigh of relief), and turned. His eyes flickered to John, and the doctor saw a flash of hurt surprise, possibly even betrayal, on his face before the mask came down again. 

"If I've made my point then surely you've made yours, brother dear. Go home and leave me alone, would you?" It was no longer 'us', John noted as he leaned against the wall. 

"You knew I was coming, you know why I'm here, and you should know by now that I'll do what I intend to do. If you must put up a fight for the sake of your pride, go ahead, but the end result will not change." He raised the hand holding the cane slightly, but Sherlock didn't even deign to look at it. "You know what's expected of you."

"When have I ever done what's expected of me, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice dripped with disdain and he tucked the violin under his chin again and dragged the bow violently across the strings, making Mycroft and John wince. "Go away." He repeated.

"No." Mycroft replied, then sighed. "Must we do this every time, Sherlock? You know I hate this part."

"There's a very easy way for you to avoid it. It'll be a shame to spoil your suit, and you do hate anything that might cause you to break a sweat…" Sherlock himself, John now realized, had removed his jacket and his shoes, and rolled his sleeves halfway up to the elbow- looked like he was ready for a physical fight. Mycroft, for his part, hadn't even bothered to take off his own jacket, and rolled his eyes at Sherlock's reply. But really, John wondered, could he win a physical fight? He was a bit taller than Sherlock, and heavier, and possibly better rested and fed, but could he fight at all? Maybe he'd put some ninja moves out of thin air, the way he produced surveillance equipment. The man caught him looking and shrugged very slightly. Cleary, he wasn't worried. In fact, he moved towards John, holding the cane in his direction. 

"Hold this for me, would you? I'll need it back in a minute or two." 

John sidestepped to keep his distance from the slender implement. "Oh no. Leave me out of this, I'm not about to play lovely assistant to whatever you're planning here. Do your own dirty work for a change." 

Mycroft grimaced but nodded, while Sherlock turned a vicious glare on John, who met it steadily. "You'd hardly be a very lovely assistant, John, but then torturers don't require the lovely ones, do they? I find it hard to believe that your moral compass isn't outraged at this silly plan of my brother's."

"If you're trying to gain my sympathy, don't bother." Yes, calling Mycroft a torturer made John's heart twist a little, but he knew it for the manipulation it was. "Mycroft explained it all, and I'm not getting involved. I haven't slept in three days, so I haven't the energy for any of your crap."

"Three days?" Sherlock put the violin, which he'd still held but not played for the past few minutes, down on the desk. "Why not? We don't have a case."

"Deduce why." John snarled through clenched teeth, suddenly furious with Sherlock's self-involvement and casual treatment of everyone around him. After a brief moment of shocked silence, Sherlock seemed to be giving the matter actual thought. 

"Your nightmares are back." The most obvious explanation, and he hadn't noticed because he himself had spent over a day asleep. "You find this relapse upsetting, and you blame me for it. Irrational, but lack of sleep does make you over-sensitive and irritable." 

"I blame you because it's your ruddy fault, is why!" John exploded. "You deliberately experimented on me, scared me, put me in a situation where I was sure my life was threatened and I felt trapped, for no reason!"

"To prove a theory!" Sherlock flared in reply, although it was clear that John's outburst had startled him.

"A theory that wasn't even right! You were wrong, and now I can't sleep, you great big prat- and not a word of apology about it, either! I put up with all of you insanity,   
and you just can't be arsed to care!" 

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, while John got his breathing back in order, and his face was blank again, but his eyes were unfocused, deep in thought, his brows drawn together. "I…didn't intend for that to happen." He sounded factual, not remorseful.

"You never even thought about it." John corrected, still angry but not as close to a boil. 

"You're angry with me for your own psyche's reaction to stimulus." Came the clarification.

"I'm angry because you're the one who exposed me to the damn 'stimulus' in the first place, when there was no need to do it." Sherlock could be incredibly dense about making connections that relied on emotion rather than his beloved logic.

John was so focused on Sherlock that he hadn't noticed Mycroft moving around the room. It was telling that Sherlock hadn't either, apparently- suddenly, in a move too quick to register properly, let alone to be avoided, the older man pounced. Before John had fully absorbed the situation and dropped into a combat stance, Mycroft had Sherlock's face pressed into the wall, one hand on his shoulder and the other gripping his right arm, twisted high behind his back. Sherlock snarled and struggled, gasping in pain when Mycroft pushed his trapped hand higher. He tried to pull away, kick back or stomp on Mycroft's feet, but to no avail. 

"Thank you, John, that was perfect. Exactly the distraction I needed." He wasn't even breathing hard, and John glowered, feeling a little queasy at how easily he'd been pushed into this position, like a chess pawn. 

"Don't waste your gratitude." Not like he'd been a willing participant in the maneuver, after all. "Just get on with it, if you must."

"I'm afraid I must, yes." Mycroft produced a plastic zip tie from inside his jacket and in a few firm, economical motions had Sherlock's hands tied behind his back. It was clear that he was stronger than he appeared- strong enough to keep a firm hold on his brother, despite his fierce wriggling to get away. "I wouldn't recommend dislocating your wrist over this, Sherlock. It'll possibly hurt less but trouble you for far longer than if you simply let this happen." He still kept a tight grip on his brother. John couldn't see Sherlock's face, still pressed against the wall, but could read the coiled tension in his body, and knew he'd try to run if the opportunity presented itself. He couldn't pick his way out of the plastic tie, but he'd still try to get away. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

"If you've better things to do with your time, you're very welcome to leave." Sherlock somehow managed to sound calm, even slightly bored, but his body betrayed the exact opposite. Still, he seemed to've given up on struggling, for the moment.

"Oh no. You'll be ever so disappointed if I leave now. No, you'll have your punishment, Sherlock. Until you understand and accept that there are certain lines you do not cross." Mycroft shook him a little with every word, "Points of common courtesy and the Queen's law which are not to be breached, in the interest of public and domestic peace. We all taught you better, and yet you persist in doing whatever pleases you. It can't continue." 

"And yet, you know it will." Sherlock drawled, cool as a cucumber. "We've been doing this for two decades now, Mycroft, surely you've come to the conclusion by now that it doesn't work." 

"I remain optimistic." Mycroft shrugged elegantly. "In some way it certainly has worked." His eyes flickered backwards to rest on John for a moment. "Six years ago, you asked me yourself to help you with it. Twice a day, every day, for two weeks- and it worked, didn't it?" John was staring again, aghast at the thought of the state Sherlock must've been in, at the end of those two weeks. "It worked, brother-mine. You haven't spiraled in what, three years now? Longer? You've been clean over a year?"

Sherlock flinched, hunching his shoulders as best he could while cuffed, and muttered something into the wall. Mycroft shook him again, not very hard, and he repeated himself, louder, "Eight months."

John swore before he could stop himself, and Sherlock flinched again. Eight months meant he'd managed to evade all their searches, their careful oversight- it felt like a disappointment, a failure. Eight months was after Moriarty and the pool, after the first encounter with Irene Adler, after he already knew she wasn't dead…"Damnit." It was a milder expletive than the first one he'd used, and not enough to convey his anger. Mycroft made a humming noise.

"Just the once?" He didn't sound angry, only somewhat disappointed.

"Just the once." Sherlock, on the other hand, sounded resigned and tired. "I was so bored, there was no case, John was away…" He half shrugged. "One hit, diluted solution. No more than a few hours." 

There was a long moment of silence before Mycroft sighed. "I'm sorry. But it's happened before- we can hope it doesn't happen again." His free hand squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, a surprisingly affectionate gesture. Even more surprisingly, Sherlock allowed it. Then, the moment passed and they were both back to the business at hand. "Be that as it may, clearly my methods are, in fact, working. Once is still a vast improvement over those years after you graduated, isn't it? And you've managed to buy yourself a whole five minutes of distraction, nicely played. But they're over now, Sherlock." He pulled his brother away from the wall and frog-marched him to the bed. "You've broken too many laws and regulations, too publically for me to comfortably sweep out of sight. I had to explain this to the highest echelons…My employer was surprisingly sympathetic." There was a startling, wicked gleam in Mycroft's eyes that reminded John sharply that he really was Sherlock's brother. "She said it was too bad I hadn't dealt with you during your visit, as you were already so…available, shall we say, at the time."

John's mouth dropped open while Sherlock jerked in Mycroft's grip, for once truly surprised. "The Q- y-your employer knows about this?" John spluttered, his voice going up to an embarrassing squeak. Sherlock's expression, which John could now see, echoed his question with an added shade of horror. 

"Certainly." Mycroft smiled thinly. "She was quite in favor of the idea." 

Two bright spots of color rose on Sherlock's cheeks, and John had to fight back a semi-hysterical giggle. He wasn't used to thinking about his sovereign in such familiar terms. Mycroft didn't let either of them linger on this mortifying new revelation, although he did take advantage of Sherlock's momentary distraction again, this time to reach around to his front and deftly unbutton his trousers. John's main thought shifted from Her Majesty to the fact that he would never, ever let Harry anywhere near his trousers, unless it was a matter of life and death. And even then, he was sure he'd think twice. It seemed like far too intimate a thing for a sibling to do, but there it was, being done all the same. Sherlock's full-body shudder seemed to agree with John's opinion, anyway. He started to struggle again, but something was clearly holding him back, and not just Mycroft's tight hold on his cuffed hands or the fact that he was being bent over the footboard of his bed. John realized that Mycroft may have had a point about Sherlock not wanting to throw a complete tantrum in front of him. He did, however, force himself upright and turn his head to face Mycroft. His lips moved soundlessly, trying for discretion- of course Mycroft could read lips. The only thing John caught of his words was the first word- his own name. No wonder Sherlock was trying for discretion. Mycroft shook his head.

"But he must, Sherlock. Stop trying to stall. It's part of your punishment, try to take it like an adult, for a change." Sherlock scowled, shot an angry look in John's direction- though somehow the doctor didn't think the anger was directed at him this time- and allowed Mycroft to push him down again. He couldn't very well have run anyway, seeing as his trousers were now around his ankles. John considered the exchange, letting it distract him from the unfolding scene in front of him. Sherlock didn't what him to- what? Be here, see this? That made the most sense, but why? Was it due to Sherlock's pride, that he didn't want his friend to see him subjected to this, or out of consideration for John's feelings? This wouldn't be easy for either of them, nor for Mycroft either, John thought. Well, he'd think about it later. He focused on Mycroft, not on Sherlock, who was now upended over the bed, his pants (black and not cotton, John noted) quickly yanked down- and John looked away sharply, surprised again despite himself.

"Come now, John; you're a doctor, surely you've seen a male posterior before." Damn Mycroft and his smugness. John wondered how appropriate it would be to punch him, but decided it was best not to. Sherlock might see it as a supportive act, and John didn't really feel supportive, not after the week they'd had. "You need to look, if your presence here is to have the desired impact." 

"Oh, you want me to see him suffer?" Of course John had seen a bare arse before, more than he could count. He'd even seen Sherlock's once or twice, as his flat-mate had as little regard to nudity taboos as he had for personal space, in certain moods. But he'd never seen anyone displayed like this, and it was wrong on several levels- more so because it was Sherlock. "I told you already that I'd rather not be here at all."

"But you must be, and so you shall be. The point isn't the suffering, this isn't meant to hurt you, only him." Mycroft looked as if that made perfect sense, and John groaned and gave up.

"You- both of you- I don't know what sort of creatures raised you, but you need your emotion modules upgraded. Just get on with it and go away until the next time you need something, Mycroft." 

"Oh, very well." Mycroft rolled his eyes, and pushed Sherlock down more firmly. Without warning, he raised the cane high and brought it down across Sherlock's rear. It landed with a sharp crack that reminded John too much of a gunshot, and he flinched. Sherlock jerked, gasping, and started to struggle again but could get no leverage in the position he was in. "Stop that, Sherlock, you'll pull something if you keep struggling." Mycroft shook his head, lowering the cane and giving his brother a moment to collect himself. John could already see the line of pink rising on Sherlock's pale skin, darkening with every breath. "There's hardly a point in fighting this, at this stage of events." The cane rose again and descended with another swish and crack, cutting through the air. John watched, unable to look away, as the muscles in Sherlock's thighs rippled, trembling with the force of the impact. Mycroft wasn't pulling any shots, and John could see that the cane was truly a vicious little instrument, two ugly stripes now stark pink-on-white. The third stroke elicited an awful sound, a muted shriek quickly stifled into a truly pathetic whimper, and John took half a step forward before Mycroft stopped him with a glance.

"Overdoing it a little, aren't you Sherlock? I'm not hurting you nearly enough for caterwauling yet. Stop trying to manipulate John into stopping me, you're only making it likelier that he'll want a go at you, himself." Mycroft raised an eyebrow in John's direction, "Would you like a go, actually? I should've asked earlier, it completely slipped my mind." He held out the cane again. John took that same half step back to where he'd been standing before, disgust and anger and worry making his stomach do somersaults. 

"No, I don't want a bloody go. Not with that thing, that's for sure." The cane could cause real, serious, actual damage, and he could tell by Mycroft's precision that the other man had had a lot of practice. "Stop trying to get me involved."

"You're already involved, John." Mycroft pointed out serenely. "Ready, Sherlock?"

"No." Came the sullen reply, followed by another quiet gasp as a fourth stripe bloomed across his backside. John very carefully didn't look at his friend's face, because whatever he'd see there, he didn't want to see. 

"How-" he stopped and cleared his throat, cursing himself for sounding as upset as he was by this whole thing, "How many are you giving him?"

"As many as I judge are needed." Mycroft shrugged. "Until he learns that he is not outside human society and law, and accepts responsibility for his actions." He checked his watch. "We might be here a while. Regretting using my card yet, Sherlock?"

"We solved the case." Sherlock said decisively, and John was impressed by how resolute he sounded, given his current predicament. "That's what matters. It was necessary." 

"It was not." The cane whistled down again and Sherlock shuddered, silent. "Neither that nor subjecting John to your experiments was necessary. Both goals could've been achieved without burdening others with the consequences." Another stroke, and John thought he was flinching more than Sherlock did with every hit. The sound was disconcerting, to say the least. Over the next (impossibly slow-moving) minute, six more strokes painted Sherlock's ass with bright stripes of darkening pink, darker in the few places they overlapped. Surely Mycroft was almost done? After that one cry earlier, Sherlock had stayed stubbornly silent, barely even shifting in place as the blows landed. John had seen him injured before, and knew that if necessary he could ignore physical discomfort for a fair while- just how far would this go?

"Do I need the first aid kit?" He asked, trying to sound neutral and probably failing.

"Not yet. Probably not in general, in fact." Mycroft replied. His left hand was still pinning Sherlock down. "Unless he does something foolish, that is. And I'm not done yet, have patience John."

"It's hard to be patient when you're doing- that." John waved a hand at the scene. "I'm not used to standing by when people I care about are being hurt on purpose."   
Sherlock said something, which clearly wasn't meant for John's ears as it was in French. Even with the foreign words, John could hear the strain in his voice. Mycroft shook his head. 

"Is this really so distressing to you, John? You know no permanent damage will be caused-"

"I know no such thing." John corrected. Psychological damage was as bad as physical. "And yes, damnit, it's very distressing." He didn't care anymore. "I'm going out. You do whatever you want." 

"Very well." Mycroft started to nod, but something changed in Sherlock's posture, bent over as it was, that made John pause as he turned to the door. A certain stiffness, hunching in on itself, that made John purse his lips and steel his nerves. 

"So help me, Sherlock, if this is another manipulation I'll-" His hand opened and closed a few times, unsure of exactly what he'd do except that it wouldn't be pleasant for anyone involved. 

"If what is? I'm not- doing anything." Sherlock sounded puzzled, still with the underlying strain, and Mycroft smiled very slightly.

"No manipulation, he's not even aware it's happening, John. It's as honest as he can possibly get, unconscious tells he can't control." Sherlock tried to push himself up at that explanation, but Mycroft pushed right back and kept him in position. "No, don't move. Stay right there and we might even finish this today." 

"What exactly am I doing?" Insistent, a little confused and irritated.

"You're indicating you don't want John to leave." Mycroft explained patiently. 

"Of course I want him to leave! Him staying would be distressing for him and embarrassing for me, why would I want him to stay?" This was possibly the strangest conversation John had ever participated in, and after a year and a half living with Sherlock Holmes, that was saying something. 

"Because his presence is comforting to you. It's nice to have a friend when you're in a bind, isn't it Sherlock? And yet you do everything in your power to push him away."

"I apologized!" Sherlock countered, anger rising, as he again tried to pull away from his brother. 

"Did you really?"

"He did, and I didn't even have to hit him to get it done." John nodded. He thought about it for a moment, and finally came to a decision. "Sherlock, do you want me to stay?"

"No!"

"For your sake or for mine?" His voice was hard, his eyes harder, and though Sherlock couldn't see him, John knew he could hear his determination.

"Both!"

"Are you absolutely sure it isn't just so I feel better about this?" John left his position against the wall and stalked forward almost silently, watched by an unmoving Mycroft. 

"Yes, damnit!" Sherlock tried to push up again, unsuccessfully. John stopped moving, facing Mycroft on Sherlock's right side.

"Sherlock, think carefully now." Low and dangerous, stressing every word, "Did you just lie to me?"

After a tense, loaded moment the fight seemed to go out of Sherlock entirely and he deflated, slumping forward, defeated at last. "Yes." It was a bare whisper of air against the sheets his face was buried in. It was enough. 

John moved without thinking about it actively, his hand reaching down to grab one of Sherlock's slippers from under the bed. The detective rarely used them, but John had been aware of their presence there since he'd entered the room, familiar and homey and exactly what he needed right now. He drew his arm back and let the slipper's leather sole thwack hard against his friend's backside. Sherlock let out a squawk of alarm and pain at this unexpected development, but John didn't let that bother him. "You. Are. An. Idiot." He punctuated every word with a slap of slipper on skin, turning the untouched skin between welts a shade of rose. He knew it had to hurt even more on the already damaged skin, as evidenced by Sherlock's little hiccups of noise, clearer evidence of distress than Mycroft had drawn from him thus far. "You're a rubbish friend sometimes, and an absolute tit when it comes to understanding feelings." He brought the slipper down again, twice, as hard as he could, then backed away, dropping it back where it belonged on the floor. "And if you don't understand why yet, I'll explain it to you later. I'm staying. Just-" He glowered at Mycroft, "stop playing games."

Mycroft gave him a searching look, and seemed satisfied with what he saw- which was disconcerting, frankly. "You're a remarkable man, John Watson."

"Shut up and get on with it, Mycroft." Feeling like a wrung mop, John leaned against the wall again and crossed his arms. Now that he'd done it, he felt half elated, half disgusted with himself. For now elation and a sense of justice being done prevailed. 

"Very well." Mycroft sighed, absent-mindedly stroking Sherlock's shoulder. "Almost finished, it would seem." Again, he raised the cane.   
Instead of being single, well-spaced cracks, the next barrage of strokes came like a machine gun exploding, spitting out lightning-fast bullets. Two, four, six, eight, fast and hard but still careful, overlapping as they had to be. When Mycroft relaxed his stance John could see the criss-cross of stripes, but no sign that the skin had been broken. Sherlock was trembling, still silent, but visibly affected. "Almost." Mycroft said, changing the angle of his swing a little. He swung from below, hit the join between buttock and thigh, and Sherlock made that whining whimper sound again, but this time John knew it was genuine, and sympathy started to creep back into his heart. He'd been counting, though, and knew that Mycroft's Public School heritage demanded symmetry- a set number, an even two dozen, which meant they had three more to go. Sherlock surely knew that as well. 

John closed his eyes, hearing the last three strokes but not seeing them, hearing Sherlock react, but not looking at him. He wasn't sure what he'd see on his friend's face now, and didn't want to speculate on how he might react to whatever it was. He stayed there with his eyes closed, hearing fabric rustle and Mycroft moving around. He could hear a soft murmur of words- French again, but the general tone was reassuring, comforting in its musicality. He heard Mycroft coming before he felt the hand on his arm. "Let's go, John." 

His eyes opened, to see Mycroft was holding a pair of scissors and the cut plastic tie, having clearly freed Sherlock's hands. "Go?" Sherlock was curled up on the covers, his face hidden from view but the state of his ass on full display. It didn't seem reasonable to just leave him like that.

"Yes. Come along now. You can return later." Mycroft steered him out, and John allowed himself to be guided. Mycroft left him in the middle of the living room and headed straight for where they kept the alcohol, rarely used but of excellent quality. He poured two double shots into glasses, and returned to John's side, handing him one. "Two hands." He advised, demonstrating as he raised the glass to his lips and half-drained it in a single long swallow. John followed suit, letting the smooth burn warm his insides and restore some sense of reality. "Better?" 

"No." John tottered the two steps to the sofa and fell into it heavily. "He'll never forgive me, will he? I've put myself in the same bloody category you're in." 

"I believe I'm still quite alone in my 'category', as you put it." Mycroft sat down, crossed his legs and polished off the last of his drink. "If nothing else, your surprise intervention spared him a good third of his punishment, at least. I haven't had this kind of reaction from him after only two dozen since he was twenty." 

"Really?" John could feel the pleasant haze of alcohol, barely started, evaporate at the sick feeling this new information caused. "You- you go for longer?"

"Oh yes. Twice that, sometimes. Not quite as hard perhaps, I did rather want to get it over with quickly, but certainly I've given him much more than that, on previous occasions. I've never tried a slipper before, though; it seemed quite effective."

"I- I don't know what came over me." John took a shaky breath. "He was being such a- a git. It seemed like the best idea at the time. That or walk out and never return."

"Well, I'm glad you chose to act, rather than avoid confrontation." Mycroft's lips stretched in as genuine a smile as John had ever seen from him. It looked less natural on his face than the fake smiles. He checked his watch. "I should be going."

"You're leaving me with him? Like this?" John felt something twist in his gut, and wasn't sure whether it was a good or bad feeling.

"Oh yes. I think you'll be much better at the after-care part than I've ever been. He'll sulk for a few days, or at least he always has before. Leave him alone for another half hour or so, then see if he wants tea. I doubt he'll ask for assistance or pain relief, but it's entirely your choice whether to offer it- or provide it, should he ask. And you should certainly explain why he's a rubbish friend, if he still doesn't get it."

"I can see why he hates you, sometimes." John rose. 

"Sometimes, even I can see why he hates me." Mycroft agreed, and in his voice John heard the echo of the Adler affair. "Take good care of him, John, for all our sakes."

"I always do, Mycroft." Even when it cost him, he did. "If he allows it, I will." 

"He'll allow it. You're the first person he's ever admitted was a friend to him, you should feel quite special."

"Oh yeah." John snorted, "I feel like a sparkly special princess." 

From the look on Mycroft's face, the sarcasm was completely wasted on him. John shook his head, thanked God that his parents had raised him mostly human, and showed Mycroft out. He didn't wait the prescribed half hour before going back to Sherlock's room, though. 

Sherlock had gotten under the covers by the time John pushed his door open, and his trousers and pants were in a pile on the floor, but he was still curled up, his face turned away from the door. He didn't react when John came in, nor when he sat down on the edge of the bed. 

"Alright, Sherlock?"

No verbal response, but Sherlock's entire body seemed to convey his opinion of that question. "Ok, that's clearly a no, then…" Unbidden, thoughtless, John stroked Sherlock's hair once, twice, and felt him trembling again. "Shh…Mycroft's gone. Buggered off and left me with the fallout, as usual. Want a cuppa?"

"No." Muffled, but it was a response, at least. 

"Ok. Well, I'm going to make myself one, and I'll be back here with the first aid kit in a few minutes, ok?"

"Don't need it." Still strained, a little hoarse, which John outwardly ignored but inwardly worried about. "Just leave me alone."

"Nope, sorry, can't do that." Bad enough that he'd helped cause the injury- leaving it untreated was unthinkable. "You hang in there, don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

The lack of response to that statement, which would've gotten a snort at best, a rant about triteness at worse on a normal day, worried him even more. John made two cups of tea out of habit and carried them and the small kit from the bathroom back to Sherlock's room. Didn't seem to've been any change in him, in those five minutes, but the harsh lines under the duvet seemed to relax a little, and Sherlock finally turned his head to look at him. His hair hung in his eyes, which were a little red, and John could see the clear signs of tears on his face. His face must've showed his feelings clearly because Sherlock hissed and turned away again. 

"Pity, John? Now's not the time." Well, if he was being snippy he obviously felt a little better, except that he tended to lash out when upset, so not much better. 

"Sympathy, not pity." John corrected. "Even if you're an utter git sometimes, I figure you're in a fair deal of pain. Turn over, I'll put something on it?" 

"I can take care of myself." Sherlock turned the full force of his glare on him, but John was undaunted. 

"I'm sure you can, but you won't, I know you too well. Go on. If you just leave it like that you won't be able to move tomorrow." Was he pushing too hard? Invading Sherlock's privacy? Could he invade it any more than he already had? Well, fuck it then. He'd invaded Afghanistan, what's a consulting detective's privacy after that? "If you want to deal with it on your own, fine, but I'll need proof that you have."

"I don't see any reason why I'd want to move tomorrow." Damn the man.

"We might have a case." John dangled the suggestion like bait, and Sherlock blinked, having clearly forgotten that option somehow. "A nice, interesting case that'll have you rearing to go, except you'll be slowed down, limited range of motion, Donovan might wonder what's up with you. Lestrade's smart enough to figure it out- and he's known you longer than I have- does he know about Mycroft's ideas of brotherly control?" The slight flush on Sherlock's pale face indicated that yes, Lestrade was in fact aware of it. "See? He'll put two and two together, he's smarter than you give him credit for. Turn over already." 

"No." Sherlock growled. "Just hand me the kit, John. I can take care of myself." 

"Fine." John threw the kit on the bed and backed away, but didn't leave the room. Sherlock uncurled slowly, lips bloodless and teeth clenched, and John watched as he gingerly raised the duvet and glanced behind him. He kept his face neutral with a doctor's long practice, but Sherlock's ass really looked a mess, purpling welts crossing over each other. The detective reached a cautious finger to trace one and grimaced, turning questioning eyes on John. He looked so dejected John had to do something about it. "Oh, for God's sake. Let me."

"Fine." Sherlock flopped over inelegantly and pushed the duvet away. He buried his face in his crossed arms, every line of his body shouting resistance to the very idea of comfort and companionship. John ignored the unspoken shout and sat down on the bed again. "Explain to me," Sherlock said, muffled but understandable, "why when I disregard your feelings, it's wrong, and when I want to spare your feelings, it's still wrong. It seems there's no right option. It's unfair." He held himself stiff and still, and John decided he'd best put on his best doctor manners and finish this part quickly. 

"I appreciate you wanting to spare my feelings." He dug through the kit, found disinfectant, just in case, and aloe ointment. 

"Funny way of showing your appreciation, if I may say so." Drily.

"Uh…Yeah, I guess it was. I'm sorry about that. No, actually I'm not sorry, you deserved it, but I'm still sorry I did it." Ball of cotton wool, disinfectant, and Sherlock hissed and shuddered when the cold, slightly stinging liquid touched his skin. John kept his touch clinical, professional, brisk and efficient and entirely impersonal, because this was Sherlock's arse he was touching, and it didn't bear too much thought. He knew his touch was delicate enough, but Sherlock didn't stop shivering, taut with tension, possibly anxiety. "Anyway, the point is that on both occasions you needed my input on something- a theory, emotional support, whatever, and you didn't ask, Sherlock, you just took. You used me in that experiment, and you decided for me, against your better interests, that I should leave. It's the same as the situation with Mycroft's ID card- he'd probably have arranged for legal access the first time, if you'd only asked instead of assumed he wouldn't help." 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and his voice again held the odd, strained quality when he spoke. "So I should do what's in my best interests? Experimenting on you was in my best interest, I wanted to prove a theory."

"Experimenting on me was against your interests because it pissed me off, and because it was ultimately pointless. Trying to get me to leave was against your interests because you needed me there." John put away the cotton wool and opened the jar of aloe, sniffing to make sure it was still serviceable. Sherlock burned himself often enough experimenting that they went through quite a lot of the stuff, but the jar was half full, happily. "You see how the two situations are different?"

There was a pause as Sherlock thought. "Not really." He sighed at last. 

"Oh, for-" John reined in his frustration tightly, and tried to rephrase. "Let's put it like this: when you need my help, my presence, bloody well ask for it. You've never had a problem with that. Let's say that from now on that includes experimentation, and times when my presence will be comforting to you." He started spreading the cool gel on Sherlock's skin, and his friend flinched at the cold, then released a long breath as it started to take effect. "Got it?"

"What about experiments that require you to be unaware that there is an experiment going on?" There was still something off about Sherlock's body language, reminiscent of how he'd been when Mycroft held him down. John's fingers tightened momentarily, and Sherlock hissed a pained breath. 

"Oops, sorry. Don't do those. If you need a pawn, get somebody else. Better, avoid them altogether. But never me, never again. Ok, Sherlock?"  
Another long pause, and John sighed and decided that if he could be a doctor or a friend, then Sherlock needed a friend more than he needed a doctor. He wiped his hands and stroked Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "Ok?"

The tension drained out of Sherlock entirely, and he leaned into John's touch. "Ok."

"Good. That's good." John smiled, feeling tension he hadn't known was there dissipate as well. "Good." He repeated, moving his hand to stroke Sherlock's head again, running his fingers through his curls. "Good thing nobody can see this." He said, half-smiling. "Me, in your bedroom, hands all over your arse. People would talk."

"To hell with people." Mumbled, unfocused, and Sherlock was still leaning into his palm like an oversized, drowsy cat.

"Yes. Quite." John's smile widened. 

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I need- would you stay here? Until I fall asleep? See, I'm trying."

John stayed.


End file.
